


Easy Steps For Filling Your Nest

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Attempted Sex, Basically Kraglin v. Yondu's new toy, Call Your Fucking Dad, M/M, Or he'll keep adopting pets, Peter is a Little Shit, Poor Kraglin, Rimming, Victory-rimming is the best rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Empty nesting isn't a thing. Even if it were, Yondu fucking Udonta wouldn't do it.</p><p>Or so Kraglin keeps telling himself. Unfortunately, repetition doesn't make it any truer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy Steps For Filling Your Nest

**Author's Note:**

> **I wanted to explore an idea from my last fic, _Who's Your Daddy?_ (not nearly as kinky as it sounds), which features a Peter who kinda cut contact completely with the Ravagers after becoming a Guardian. Here's a look at things from the Ravagers' side!**
> 
>  
> 
> **Shameless self-promotion: on the offchance anyone hasn't found it yet, my tumblr's write-like-an-american, and it's full of Ravager slash.**

Kraglin suspects something’s wrong when Yondu stops hoarding pretty trinkets and starts staring longingly at the grubby windows of the pet-slash-fresh-meat shop buried in Knowhere’s dingy bowels. Well. He doesn’t _stare longingly_. Yondu Udonta, ninth-most-wanted man in the quadrant, Admiral of the Ravagers and space pirate extraordinaire, does not _stare longingly_ at things. Not when he can _take_ them.

Kraglin ought to know, having been one of such things himself.

(“Hi,” said the blue man. His toothy smile had no rights to be so winning, as he sidled to join him on the chilly fire escape of the upper-crust Xandarian eatery where Kraglin waited tables and got insulted forty hours a week. "Wanna try something new?”

“Yes,” came the passionate reply.

Kraglin had ground out the butt of his huffer-cigarette, followed Yondu back through the restaurant, and dumped the scalding bowl of soup he was supposed to be serving down the collar of the Nova Corps officer who’d thought it amusing to trip him or flick peas at him whenever he passed. (His actions had left Kraglin no choice but to storm out for a smoke before he stabbed someone, thus cementing his and Yondu’s first meeting and the genesis of one of the most dastardly duos to ever menace the spaceways. It really is delightfully ironic, when he thinks about it.)

He’d tugged on the redcoat when Yondu offered it, vaguely aware of what the gold flame meant but too euphoric for it to register. He’d bounded up the gangway after a gaggle of Ravagers who gave him curious looks and the occasional poke – “Whas this, Yondu? New pet?”

They’d shut up damn fast when Kraglin pulled a knife on them. Yondu didn’t even have to whistle.

He’d smiled instead, that same wicked grin he’d first approached him with, bright and fierce with the glee of impending chaos. Kraglin had done his best to emulate it, and never looked back.)

So, all in all, he’s known Yondu a long time. Long enough to know that this ain’t the _usual_ brand of wackiness. But Kraglin hasn’t been napping for those decades of shared drinks, kills, drunk kisses, sober kisses, handjobs and more; he’s acquired a selection of data that’d put the Nova snoops to shame, and believes himself capable of diagnosing whatever it is that’s got Yondu’s goat.

…The answer being: a scummy-looking beggar with pustules crusting his neck. He takes one look at Yondu, follows his gaze along his leash to the malnourished and scraggly creature at its other end, blanches, and makes for the nearest of the Celestial’s hollowed arteries at a shambled half-run. The goat is pulled after, bleating pitifully. Kraglin’s not sure if he’s grateful about that or otherwise.

“Uh, sir?” he asks tentatively. “Do you… Want a pet?”

Yondu, caught in the act of ogling a yappy rat-dog cross snuffling for scraps in the gutter, twitches and rounds on him. “Why,” he growls, “Would ya think _that?_ ”

There’s a vein pulsing in his neck. Bad sign. His lips are wet to whistle. Worse.

But you don’t get to be Ravager mate without suffering through your fair share of tantrums. Kraglin steels himself – difficult, when Yondu’s red glare is ominously _glowy_ – and folds his arms. “Because I ain’t stupid.” Judging by his scoff, Yondu begs to differ. He turns and starts plowing through the dull-eyed strings of pedestrians: mine workers and wastrels with the odd Hordesman, merchant, vagrant and bounty hunter scattered among them. Kraglin jogs to catch up. “Y’know, I wouldn’t mind. Thas all I’m sayin’. Like, I don’t have the first clue what to do with animals, so don’t expect me to look after it or nothing, but…”

Yondu smoothly sticks his boot between Kraglin’s, depositing him face-first in the slime and grub.

They’re in one of Knowhere’s many atrophied pockets of cheek-fat. Mineralized flesh droops from the ceiling in bilious stalactites, and the porous walls hum in the fetid breeze. A few food stalls list at the extremities of the passage, leaning on one another in ramshackle disrepair, paint long faded to grey. They serve protein-slop for the miners. No chance of hot soup. Kraglin’s tempted to dunk Yondu headfirst in the nearest vat anyway (once he’s peeled the worst of the gunk from his jumpsuit, snarling and swatting at the urchins who dare laugh at him). Tragically, he’s not reckless enough to believe he’d be able to drown him before he whistled.

By the time he’s de-slimed, Yondu’s long gone. Kraglin hisses “Jackass” under his breath, and stomps off to find a tunnel full of folks who haven’t just seen him take a dive into substances best left on the soles of boots.

 

* * *

 

When he returns to their shuttle, two hours before curfew (at which point the hatch will roll majestically shut, accompanied by rusty screeches and the screams of any who don’t retract their fingers beyond the yellow-marked danger zone; the ship will pressurize, magnets decoupling from Knowhere’s docking bay; the engines will engage; and they’ll shoot from Knowhere’s lips like a spat cherrystone) it’s empty except for his captain. Yondu sits on a packing crate, cross-legged. He’s doing that pensive glaring-at-nothing thing he’s perfected ever since…

Ever since, well, that Thing They Don’t Talk About, really.

He smirks when Kraglin enters. “Got somethin’ on yer face.”

It’s called a scowl. “Fuck you, boss.”

“Maybe later.”

So far so good. The urge to dump hot soup on him is, as ever, being quelled by his presence. Kraglin manages a smile of his own. “So, you find yerself one of them Terran guinea-pigs, or something?”

Yondu tosses the nearest blunt object (luckily for Kraglin it’s a data pad, and doesn’t so much concuss as _bonk_ ). “Fuck _you_.”

“Maybe later,” Kraglin teases, and dodges the next projectile sent his way. There. Everything’s back to normal.

They’ve got a while before the others start traipsing in. Today’s cargo is information on the next mark, and brewing hangovers – Yondu’s men excel in wrangling rumors (and the occasional security blueprint) from drunk bar patrons, but that tends to necessitate a certain amount of imbibing for themselves. The two of them are along to chaperone, given that the swill served up by Knowhere bars can get even Kronans shit-faced in five minutes, and a Ravager captain who gets apocalyptically smashed in front of anyone but his most trusted won’t be captain long.

Kraglin makes the most of the time, dragging the hatch to a half-mast that bathes the rear of the hold in shadow and gives a semblance of privacy, Sauntering to Yondu, he nudges his thighs apart with a sly twist of the hips. The crate creaks as Yondu readjusts his weight, and for some reason, the blue hands on Kraglin’s hips go from encouraging to halting.

“This ain’t later.”

“We got ages,” mumbles Kraglin. He frames his angular face in his hands, dipping between them to kiss. In the darkness, Yondu’s blue skin flushes indigo; Kraglin knows he must be a similarly dusky red from collar-up, tattoos melding into skin as his blood climbs as close to the surface as it can get. When he strokes Yondu’s lips they part for him, hot breath gushing over sensitive fingerpads, tongue darting out to lick. But the next words out of Yondu’s mouth are adamant, even if he doesn’t pull away.

“Quit it, Krags.”

Kraglin lingers a moment anyway, because it never hurts to hope. But Yondu’s too-close, unfocused glare doesn’t waver, and when Kraglin’s knee bumps the crate he’s shoved roughly away. “Ow! What?”

“I said, quit it.”

“Okay, okay! Hell…” He retreats to the far side of the shuttle, resolving to stew for in silence. This is the one part of their arguments he and Yondu eke out with mutual satisfaction, often for months at a stretch. They construe ‘silent treatment’ as passive-aggressively snapping within earshot of one another and using the terrified crew as go-betweens until they scare a messenger into deserting, plotting a mutiny, or developing incontinence – at which point Yondu and Kraglin will share a laugh and get on with the make-up sex. Kraglin’s almost looking forwards to it.

Alas, it’s not to be.

Because in the sudden hush, there’s a noise. It’s discernible from the usual bass wubs of ship ventilators, or the nasal whining of the packing cranes that haul barrels of cerebral fluid back and forth across the docks. In fact, it’s kinda like… Scrabbling. Scrabbling in sawdust. It’s also weirdly constant, as if it’s been there all along but is only noticeable in the absence of other sound, and Kraglin cocks his head, trying to determine the source.

He’s prevented by Yondu. The captain jabs his finger at him and snaps “Don’tchu sulk,” in a voice considerably louder than the situation warrants. Whatever’s pissed him off, Kraglin ain’t it, and he doesn’t deserve to bear the brunt of the retaliatory carnage. Better not to engage.

“I’m not sulking,” he mutters, concentrating on that quiet rustle.

“Look like sulking to me!”

“Why are you shouting?”

“I’m not shouting!”

The rustle is punctuated by a high-pitched squeak. It emanates, quite definitively, from the box Yondu’s sitting on.

Yondu freezes. Kraglin freezes.

Isla pounds on the door.

“Oi, boss? Can we come in?”

“Aw shit,” Yondu says, and Kraglin wholeheartedly agrees.

 

* * *

 

 

When Isla is granted permission to enter, she discovers captain and first mate sat side-by-side on a box. It’s not their most subtle moment – the overtness magnified by the fact that the box is scarcely broad enough to comfortably hold one, and Kraglin’s practically piled on Yondu’s lap to compensate. For once, Yondu doesn’t look happy about this.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“Nothing!” comes the synchronized reply. Isla frowns, lip rings glinting in the greasy dockyard light.

“Why the yelling?”

“Got smacked with a sonic blast!” Kraglin blurts, after an awkward lull that’s occupied by Yondu’s demanding nudges at his ribs. It’s not actually the worst lie he’s ever told.

Yondu embroiders it, drumming his heels on the crate to add more decibels to the mix and hollering over Isla’s curly head: “Yer all gonna have to talk loud; we can’t hear a fuckin’ thing!”

Telling a bunch of husky and bloodshot-eyed Ravagers who’re already nursing headaches that they’re to scream at the top of their lungs for the fifteen minute trip to the ship, is like trying to teach an Accuser the meaning of ‘subtle eyeliner’. They manage. Somehow. By the time the shuttle crawls into the _Eclector_ ’s hanger bay, atmospheric forcefield distending and puncturing, then folding neatly in behind, they’re all hoarser than Yondu on a bad day. It’s done their cover-story wonders though; if they weren’t deaf before, they sure are now.

They wave the other Ravagers out, spinning some bullshit about needing to defrag the engines when they’ve cooled – or rather, Kraglin spins bullshit, because Yondu’s croaking like a sore-throated bullfrog and every second word is laced with whistles. As soon as the hatch closes they share a glance, then tip to either side and cough until their lungs seize.

“Wow,” moans Kraglin, banging his knuckles on the crate. “Don’t think I’ve lost my voice since that time when Peter was little. Y’remember? When I yelled at him for three hours straight after he nearly got our asses busted on a raid –“

His voice trails off, and not because his vocal cords are limp as overcooked spaghetti. _That Thing We Don’t Talk About._

The P-word.

Besides him, Yondu’s all stiff, shoulders hiked up about his ears. Shit.

The peeping continues from beneath them, sharp as a baby’s cry. Yondu’s knee rests against his, jigging with agitation, and when Kraglin lays his palm atop of it he jerks away, standing and heading to rifle the shuttle weapons compartment for a crowbar. The line of his back is painfully taut.

“Sorry,” Kraglin says, because he can’t think of anything else. He clears his throat – doesn’t do much for the pain, but allows him to stumble through the next words without choking. “No more reminiscin’ about Petey. Gotcha.”

It’s only cosmic luck (or Yondu’s shoddy aim) that has the crowbar sailing wide.

 _Right._ Time for a subject change. “What’s in the crate?” Kraglin asks, bounding to retrieve the crowbar as Yondu advances (partly so he can appear helpful, mostly so it doesn’t get lobbed at him again). Yondu, pausing besides it, shrugs and drops into a low squat, examining the slatted boards.

“Les find out.”

“You’re telling me you don’t know…?” Kraglin puts his frustration into action, digging the crowbar’s hook into the nearest gap and heaving until his wiry muscles strain against the sleeves of his jumpsuit. “Why’d you buy it then?”

“Didn’t buy it,” says Yondu. Of course. _Ravager_. But any onlooker could be forgiven for not seeing a _Ravager_ in that moment, as Yondu rests his palm on the side of the crate, expression fluxing between anticipation and serenity, crest a ruddy crimson. He almost looks… _happy_.

Kraglin side-eyes the gleaming implant, levering the lid another groaning inch. He wonders if this is a Weird Centaurian Thing. “Remember sir,” he grunts, an instant before the wood gives and showers them both in splinters. “I ain’t on housetraining duty.”

From the way Yondu grabs the fluffy, three-mouthed creature, heedless of its fangs – and seriously, what are teeth that massive doing on a thing that small? – and holds it at face-height by the scruff of its neck, whistling through his teeth until its eyes glow dim red and its snaps and struggles soothe, Kraglin’s not going to have to worry about that. What he is going to worry about is how the fuck they’re supposed to entertain this beast. His scanner is informing him it’s _highly carnivorous_ , with a _voracious appetite_ , and that the Nova Corps species-guide recommends _shooting on sight_.

Still, he figures, adamantly shaking his head when Yondu offers him it to hold. It won’t be for long. That’s the only reassurance he can afford himself. After all, there’s only two toys Yondu never got bored of. One’s him. The other… Well, the other is making his own way across the stars. He’s a big boy now. Got his own team, own band-name, everything. Even (somehow) managed to con the empires into listing _Star-Lord_ on his records as an official alias.

He’s also completely neglected to drop a line saying _Hey guess what, I’m still alive_ , or _Sorry about the troll-doll thing; but I bet you laughed._ For the past two years.

In Kraglin’s humble opinion, that’s that. If Peter ain’t gonna put in effort, he don’t deserve it from their end. Kraglin’s not the sort to get attached easy; while he _likes_ the kid, he’s still pissed at him for cheating them out of several billion units (and a fucking stupendous bout of victory-sex, now indefinitely postponed). He can push any affection to one side in favor of stoking the spiteful determination that Peter don’t mean shit. Yondu, deciding his comm-silence must be a competition (because that’s far better than the alternative: that Peter’s simply forgotten them) has thus far demonstrated his agreement with Kraglin’s tactics by refusing to cave and call first.

This’s just the next step, Kraglin tells himself. (He flinches when the monster gives a triplicate yawn so wide that all three of its jaws must have dislocated – how else could it expose that much _throat_?) Yondu’ll play with it for a week or so. Then it’ll shit on his desk and he’ll kick it out the airlock. All Kraglin’s gotta do is keep calm, deal with the fallout (and the inevitable mauled corpses), and show no fear.

The fluffball snuggles sleepily into Yondu’s arms. With its mouths shut and snout buried in its silk-soft white pelt, it could be mistaken for a lapdog. Its leg twitches, lazy with pleasure, when Yondu scratches it behind the ear.

“Thas it,” Yondu croons, a low rumble on the cusp of audible. He tickles the thing’s belly, smooths the fur on its kicking hind legs, and turns to Kraglin, one corner of his mouth crooked up. The crows-feet around his eyes have crinkled into satisfied crescents. “See? Harmless.”

It sure seems so. Whatever freaky Centaurian-hypnosis Yondu worked, it’s effective. The creature lolls in his arms like a baby. Perhaps Kraglin’s fretting needlessly? He shuffles closer, ready to bolt at the first hint of a threat, and inches out a hand – with Yondu’s nodding encouragement – testing if that pelt is as silky as it looks.

Then the little monster cracks an eye, looks at Kraglin, and licks its lips.

 

* * *

 

 

The monster (named Junior) is evil. No one’s denying it (except perhaps Yondu, but given he stole it in the first place he doesn’t get an opinion). However, never have the depths of its malevolence been fully revealed. Until this moment that is – as Yondu attempts to fellate a dick that ain’t getting stiff any time in the next decade.

After five minutes of kissing, licking, and the occasional impatient nip have had no discernible effect, Yondu admits defeat. He pushes onto his elbows, letting Kraglin’s cock flop wetly to rest against his thigh, and punches him in the stomach. “What, ya can’t get it up no more?”

Kraglin, prone on the bed, twitches nervously. “It’s watching me,” he says.

Yondu rolls his eyes. “Ya never gave a shit when Peter walked in on us.” Then realizes he’s just broken his own rule about  _he who shall not be named_ , and angrily stuffs his mouth with cock as if looking to drag Kraglin’s bloodflow southwards through suction. Kraglin sighs and tries to get into it. He really does. It’s just difficult when your boss’s pet man-eater is calmly gnawing on a rack of ribs larger than itself, supplied either by Shorro the Chef or an unfortunate rookie, and staring straight at you every time it crunches through to the marrow.

Yondu pulls off again and wipes his mouth. “Quit  _lookin’_  at him.”

“Ain’t you never seen them animal shows on the Xandarian webnet?” Kraglin attempts to blink one eye at a time. “They getcha when you break eye-contact.”

“You’re an idiot.” Yondu shifts along his body, straddling his thighs. He grinds down in a rough skid of blue skin, leaving Kraglin’s sensitized prick aching.

“Ow, what –“

“Look at  _me,_ ” Yondu demands, grabbing his cheeks. He wrenches Kraglin’s gaze from Junior, dragging his head round until Kraglin’s forced to choose between obeying the order and misplacing his eyeballs in his skull. “C’mon, boy. Wanna take your meat.”

At that word, the monster’s ears prick. Kraglin withers further. “Oh God, don’t call it that.”

Yondu growls and kisses him. A tongue probes for Kraglin’s tonsils, their stubble grazing like sandpaper. Yondu’s hips swivel in devious circles, globes of his ass tensing to fill out Kraglin’s slender hands, and he tugs on Kraglin’s underlip with his chipped incisors hard enough to blister the fragile skin. It’s hot. But it’s also impossible to concentrate on when you’re hyperaware of those  _other_  incisors, the ones belonging to the monster coiled in its box on the desk, currently grinding on splintered bone.

Or worse: that said grind has ceased. With neither sound nor vision to guide him, Kraglin’s got no way of telling where Junior is. That’s far scarier than the possibility that the little blighter might develop a voyeuristic streak. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wonder what it’s up to for long. Yondu withdraws, leaving his mouth full of the copper tang of his own blood, and grumbles: “What’ve I told ya? Off the damn bed."

Kraglin’s heard of ‘tucking’, but he’s never thought a dick could attempt it of its own volition.

He can hear Junior now, rustling through the sheets at his side. He buries his face in his hands. “I’m gonna die.”

“Yeah, if ya don’t get to fucking me…” Despite the threat, Yondu dismounts to shoo Junior from where it’s busy shredding Kraglin’s pillow. Kraglin doesn’t dare complain – better that than him – and breathes a sigh of relief. Then realizes there’s now no warm blue flesh between him and a certain part of his body he’d rather keep intact, and swaps the hands protecting his bonny good looks further south, wriggling out of (what he hopes is) pouncing range.

Junior, deposited on the floor, bypasses the fact that Yondu’s responsible for his eviction and instead growls at the trembling pink thing that has stolen the prime spot by his master’s side.

Honestly. Pinkie might be hairy, but the fuzz on its trunk, legs and arms is nowhere near as luxurious as Junior’s own. It doesn’t know what Yondu sees in him.

Pinkie’s pinkness wanes to waxy white, cross-hatched with brown. Junior bares all ninety-six of his fangs and contemplates peeling away that bristly epidermis to reveal the yummy, glistening muscle beneath. Pinkie’s fuzz would get caught in his teeth, but that’s a sacrifice worth paying if it means ascending to his rightful place in the bedroom hierarchy.

Yondu pokes Junior with his toe. “Oi. Quit starin’ at my mate. He’s already scared shitless; don’t want him to piss the bed.”

Not a word of that makes sense to Junior. It does to Kraglin though, as he morosely fingers the torn strips of pillowcase and does his best to convince himself that Junior won’t try anything so long as Yondu’s present. “Ain’t me you gotta worry about, sir. How d’you know that thing’s house-trained?”

Yondu scoops Junior up and tickles its belly. Really, Kraglin thinks, giving it the evil eye, that much floof on something so diabolical should be illegal. Perhaps he ought to shave it. He bets it won’t look half as cute in the nude. Speaking of nude… Well, Kraglin’s determined now. He ain’t gonna let Junior win. He’s gonna fuck Yondu until he sees stars (quite literally, given that the bed faces the porthole, and the Horse Head’s nebula’s fucking gorgeous at this time of the astral year).

However, Yondu hasn’t answered his question.

Kraglin swings to sit besides him, dodging the faux-accidental swipes of Junior’s claws. “Uh, seriously. He need a litter tray?”

Yondu’s mouth does that wriggly thing that impends a snicker. From the way Junior’s jaws loll in lazy delight, it’s in on the joke. “Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Because our lil’ bundle of joy pooped in yer closet five minutes before ya came in.”

 

* * *

 

After Kraglin’s done swearing and has sent all of his clothes to be steamed in the shower-rooms – including his outfit for the day, why does the  _one_ time he actually hangs up his jumpsuit rather than tossing it over Yondu’s chair have to be the day Junior marks his territory? – he flumps naked on the bed with a data-pad and sets to allocating himself jobs he can handle from the privacy of their cabin. All thoughts of sex are well and truly off. Not only because Junior’s giving him that superior triple-smirk from his bed, but because he’s a lil’ pissed Yondu didn’t clean up after his pet. Or, y’know, mention anything sooner.

Yondu doesn’t get the message.

“I could always fuck you,” he says, crashing besides him with admirable hope. “Y’know. If ya can’t get it up.”

Kraglin pulls the duvet up to his chin and strives for a tone that surpasses  _frosty_  into temperatures better measured on the Kelvin scale. “I ain’t in the mood. S’nearly morning shift anyway, don’tchu have t’be on Bridge?”

“You ain’t no fun.”

“You want fun,” says Kraglin, deflecting the playful peck with the pad’s cold steel back, “go take your pet for walkies.”

He’s expecting Yondu to keep teasing, then relent and slope off to languish in frustration for the rest of the day (a punishment which doesn’t come close to what the jackass deserves). He’s not expecting him to roll upright, stroking the stubbly edge of his jaw, and hum in contemplation. “Y’know, that ain’t a bad idea. We oughta get Junior t’know the ship. Wanna come?”

“I’m naked,” says Kraglin flatly.

“Suit yerself.” Yondu snatches his pants – which aren’t exactly  _pristine_ , but at least don’t reek of dogshit– and wriggles them up his hips. Kraglin drops the pad on his face so he doesn’t have to watch that scarred expanse of blue vanish under creased red leather. The snap of Yondu’s belt buckle precedes his march to the door, followed by a swish as his coat swings smoothly to rest over his shoulders. “C’mon Junior,” he calls. The monster yips, bounding from its perch. Kraglin swears he sees it wink. “Best t’let Baby sulk on his lonesome.”

“I ain’t sulking!” Kraglin yells. But by the time he's gathered a handful of pillow-scraps to lob, the captain’s already gone.

The cabin door whooshes shut. Kraglin falls flat, mattress groaning. He don’t know why it’s complaining. Ain’t like it got its usual rigorous work-out – and, unless Kraglin  _does something_ , said work-out isn’t gonna occur for quite some time. Because Yondu’s gonna keep being infuriating, and Kraglin’ll have no choice but to withhold sex in retaliation.

Only… What if Yondu doesn’t care, because he’s too busy playing with Junior?

That thought’s entirely uncalled for. Kraglin punches his pillow. Stuffing explodes from the gashes, pebbles of soft memory-foam. Just cause Yondu’s spending time with Junior rather than him doesn’t mean Kraglin’s being  _replaced_. Nosiree. That’s ludicrous.

But perhaps he oughta  _deal_  with this. Not because Junior’s a threat, or because Yondu giving affection to something else now Peter’s gone is  _bothering_  him. Just so the situation don’t escalate. Why, he’ll be doing Yondu a favor! It’s a first mate’s duty to keep their captain strong, infamous, and above all, unsentimental. If toting a young Terran around had wounded Yondu’s rep, taking in some flouncy, furry, multiple-mouthed lapdog may well be the spine-snapping straw…

Yes, Kraglin convinces himself, rolling about the sheets to salvage the last bit of Yondu’s warmth. Junior’s not a threat to  _him_. But he is to Yondu – and Kraglin can’t abide that.

Junior’s gotta go.

 

* * *

 

Planning his expulsion is easy. Kraglin has a hive of ideas – the first being to punt the little blighter out the airlock. But Yondu might not take kindly to that, so Kraglin shelves it for a worst case scenario (or at least, until he conjures up a way for someone else to take the blame). He puts Plot Number Two into immediate practice.

Plot Number Two is named ‘Convince Yondu Of Junior’s True Nature So He Enacts Kraglin’s Initial Scheme On His Lonesome’. It’s a working-title.

It’s also, as it turns out, trickier than it sounds.

 

* * *

 

 

Yondu sniffs. Scratches his ass. Yawns, snorts, blinks sleepily into a vague attempt at consciousness – and comes face-to-viscera with a disembowelled rat-worm.

Junior is snoring prettily on his cushion. Kraglin is snoring not-so-prettily on the remnants of his – or at least, he’s pretending to: ears open for the inevitable roar of fury and the whimpers and squeaks as the other vermin in the room is eviscerated to match the one whose guts are artfully strewn about the headboard.

He waits a long time.

“This for me? Aw, ya shouldn’t have. C’mere…” That don’t sound like an activating arrow. That sounds more like… Well, if Kraglin didn’t know better, he’d say it sounded like Yondu had invited Junior onto the bed so it could bathe his face in meat-breath in congratulation for the present.

Kraglin’s almost tempted to reveal himself as the true hunter; see if he gets the same treatment. Rat-worms are wriggly, slimy duct-haunters, and a right bugger to catch if you’re any larger than a prepubescent Terran…

“Ain’t we supposed to be consistent with ‘im,” he groans, snuggling against Yondu’s back and ignoring the drip of stale rat-blood from above. “He ain’t allowed up here with us.” The claws in his shoulder begs otherwise. “Ow!” Kraglin bolts upright, pressing a palm to the hurt and having it come away sticky. “Ow!” he repeats, louder.

Yondu doesn’t bother rolling over. “Don’t be a baby. S’just a scratch.”

“It’s bleeding!”

“It were an accident. Weren’t it, Junior?”

Junior turns a three-sixty degree circle on the panel of muscle running up Yondu’s side, which it had mounted to bestow its gift on Kraglin (and miraculously managed not to give the same treatment). It yips in agreement, and plops down to snooze. Yondu stretches his arm at an odd angle to give it space – he’s gonna be all stiff once he deigns put on his coat and face the day, and Kraglin ain’t gonna feel sorry for him, not one bit.

“You got any gauze,” he inquires through gritted teeth. Yondu indicates the dresser, using only a finger and breathing extra-shallow so as not to disturb the five kilograms of down and teeth napping on his oblique. He offers that same finger and the accompanying thumb to help pin the absorbent pad in place while Kraglin activates the adhesive.

“Gonna walk Junior after food,” he tells him, chattering away as if they aren’t patching a new hole in Kraglin’s arm. “Wanna come?”

“I think,” says Kraglin icily, shifting away as soon as the bandage is stuck, “I’ll eat alone.” His jumpsuits have returned from the on-board launderette, at least. When he turns to go and Yondu’s only response is a shrug and a “Suit yerself then,” his mouth tastes sour – and he can’t blame it on whatever Shorro-special is being doled out in the canteen, because he has yet to take a bite.

It’s time to up the ante.

 

* * *

 

Ravagers like their things.

There’s a reason why Rule Number One sits so high on the list.  _Steal from everyone except each other_  is the moral code on which the noble tradition of space-piracy is built, and with that proud lineage comes a lot of possessiveness regarding what belongs to  _Me_ , and what I will do to  _You_  if you so much as breathe on anything that falls into this category.

As such, Junior shitting in his closet hadn’t been a mere  _grievance_. It was a flagrant show of disrespect. A bitten thumb. A muster to battle – one which Kraglin would enthusiastically answer.

Perhaps, if Yondu suffers similarly he’ll become sympathetic to Kraglin’s cause?

With that in mind, Kraglin waits until Yondu’s dumped the thing in its box (with the stern order of ‘no eating my first mate; Junior I mean it, don’tchu give me that look; I’ll know if ya try’) and stormed out to fetch more meat from their rapidly-depleting stock. Then he hops on the bed, socked toes digging in for balance.

He crosses to Yondu’s pillow – intact, well-pouffed, moulded to the shape of his implant. Kicks it beneath him. Stares at Junior with an unbridled challenge, and unzips.

 

* * *

 

 

Of all the virtues, patience is the only one Kraglin possesses. This is not because he subscribes to any system of organized religion stupid enough to insist on withholding oneself from pleasure in order to gain  _more_  pleasure in an afterlife the likelihood of which’s existence is dubious at best, but because occasionally, jumping headfirst into a firefight ain’t the best idea. If you wanna survive in his line of work you gotta know how to read a situation. Hence: patience.

But with patience comes time, and with time comes hindsight – accompanied by the antsy suspicion that this was Not A Good Idea.

Too late now though. Kraglin paces back and forth in front of the napping Junior and tries to sink into monk-like zen. Fifteen minutes. That’s how long it’ll take Yondu to bully Shorro into forking over more fodder, and by then his pillow’ll be saturated rather than soggy on the surface.  _Karma,_ Kraglin tells himself, glowering at the hole where his own had recently sat. He’s traded in the scraps at the quartermaster’s, but buying a new cushion seems extortionate when you can wad up your jacket and rest on that.

It’s a little smellier (but not much). He can feel the dent in his cheek gouged by the zipper, fourteen hours after vacating the bed unsexed and frustrated – he’d had to scarper before Yondu woke up because his captain's nothing if not a devious little shit, and now Kraglin has made it his mission to die of blue-balls, Yondu's determined to tease him into an early grave. Kraglin’d be able to stand it, by dint of long experience if nothing else. If only he could shake that horrendous certainty that everything is going according to Junior’s plan…

Kraglin rubs the zipper-mark ruefully. At least tonight, Yondu’ll be sharing his discomfort in one regard. Given how many stupid buckles he has to undo before Kraglin can fuck him, his coat’s gonna be about as snuggly as a fakir’s bed.

Vengeance tastes sweet, even preemptively. Kraglin spends the rest of the time practising his reproachful glare. Junior whuffles on through his dreams, blissful and innocent, and smacks his lips as he imagines flaying Kraglin so he'll bleed out slow.

By the time Yondu arrives, Kraglin’s acclimatized to the odor. Yondu pauses, boot hovering over the cabin threshold, and sniffs; Kraglin has to bite his lip to stifle the smirk. That smirk fades along with all traces of brewing victory when Yondu turns, not to Junior, but to him. “Did ya piss the bed? Fuck, Krags. If you been shot in the gut again without tellin’ nobody –“

“What? No! It was him!  _Him!_ ” Kraglin points at the kipping monster. Junior’s claw droops from the side of the basket as he twitches in his sleep, scouring a line into the dirty desktop. Chrome flakes away like satsuma peel. Kraglin shudders. “Yondu, it’s an animal. Ya can’t expect it to respect your stuff. C’mon, les give it to Shorro or somethin’ – given how much meat it gets through, it must have the density of a fuckin’ neutron star.”

Yondu takes the opportunity to dump the oversized platter besides Junior. It contains more flesh than is dispersed over the entirety of Kraglin’s body. The beast snorts awake and begins its usual ritual: guzzling its food, splattering blood from floor to ceiling, glaring at Kraglin. Kraglin does his best to appear unimpressed.

“Aw, lil accident like that don’t do no harm. Gimme your pillow.”

“Junior ate it,” says Kraglin, voice flat. He crosses his arms too, the very picture of disgruntlement. It’d be more effective if Yondu was looking.

Yondu bundles Junior up into his arms – earning himself a growl and a snap, the meal being as-of-yet unfinished. He heads past Kraglin to the adjoining shower. “Can ya clean up in here then?” he calls over his shoulder. “Junior’s all bloody – he needs a bath.” Blue fingers card rhythmic and repetitive through Junior’s fur, at tempo with Kraglin’s rising pulse. Oh no. Hell no. Yondu might be captain, but in their cabin, the laws of the decks disintegrate. (Mostly. Sometimes. When Yondu's in a good mood.) But one thing’s for sure, and that’s that Kraglin’s not mopping up after this little blighter. Even if Junior ain’t the actual culprit. 

“Fuck no! He’s your damn pet.”

Yondu’s head emerges from behind the bathroom door. The thud of water in the filling basin is muffled by Junior’s yaps and splashes. He’s got suds on his nose; they drip when he scowls, filling the lines around his mouth in rabid foam. “Yeah. So I know what colour his piss is, numbnuts – which is purple, in case ya ever wanna make a better job of it. So, if ya don’t buy me a new pillow by the time Junior’s clean, ya can go sleep in the crew quarters.”

Kraglin’s mouth opens and closes. He doesn't have time to process the failure of his grand plan before words come rushing out. Then those words aren’t the awkward explanation that might ( _might_ ) smooth things over and make Yondu see he’s only acting up because Junior’s taken what’s his – Yondu’s time, Yondu’s attention, Yondu’s frugal quota of daily sentiment. Rather, they’re loud and harsh, clipped on the consonants and accompanied by the clatter of the door on his heels. “Good! Cause I was gonna do that anyway!”

He growls at the frozen passer-by until they come to their senses and bolt, then stalks off down the corridor. His elongated shadow trails like a dusky scarecrow, clinging to Yondu’s doorway as if it dreads letting go.

 

* * *

 

Yondu does what Yondu wants. This is a fact never asserted, but only because it doesn’t need to be.

There’s a reason Shorro would rather cull the lower ranks and the contents of the brig than let their stocks run out of meat when the captain’s demanding it – even in inordinate amounts. Similarly, there’s a reason anyone but Kraglin would be nursing a new peephole if they’d pulled such a stunt involving the gross defacement of Yondu’s property. In fact, there’s only thing Yondu wants which Yondu does not do (neglecting, of course, Kraglin-when-he’s-being-ornery). That’s pick up his comm and dial a number as familiar as his own name, and ask five simple words: “Hey, boy. How ya doin’?”

But Yondu doesn’t do this, because whether or not he  _wants_  to, the fact of the matter is that Peter belongs to  _him_ , not the other way around. If Yondu caves first that’ll admit defeat.

Yondu can’t abide that.

He also can’t abide his first mate pissing on his pillow and blaming it on poor, innocent little Junior. Spending the night shivering under a scrounged blanket in the dorms ain’t punishment enough. Next dock-job, Yondu informs Kraglin via comm-text that his usual place at his side has been afforded to Isla, with Junior as bodyguard. Kraglin can spend his morning stacking crates with minimal loo-breaks until he learns to control his bladder.

Kraglin’s response, clear even from the opposite end of the hold, is a long and bony middle finger. He scarpers before Yondu can whistle. That’s a damn relief, because as irritating as Kraglin can be, Yondu would kinda miss having those long and bony fingers inside him.

However, he should’ve known that the Pillow Fiasco wouldn’t be the last.

 

* * *

 

Kraglin’s many things. A forgiving type ain’t one. If Yondu’s not gonna see the error of his ways and repent (by butchering Junior and selling his remains for fertilizer, before retreating to his cabin and meekly letting Kraglin fuck him and, just for once, sit in his goddam chair) Kraglin’s gonna have to change tactics.

Forget Yondu despising Junior. Why not give  _him_  something to despise as well?

The look on Yondu’s face when he swaggers back up the docking ramp, Junior and Isla in tow, and spots Kraglin, is almost worth the terror of walking into an illegal petstore.

“Fuck,” Isla chokes, tumbling over her own boots in her desperation to back away. “Now there’s two of ‘em.”

Kraglin, fighting to keep his snarling fluffball on its leash, tries to shoot Yondu a superior smile. It falls flat. So does he. The new monster, named with surprising inventiveness (and the contributions of medic and quartermaster) Dr. Von Spears, spots Junior, growls, and rampages into the shuttle-hold with Kraglin in tow.

Escape is the only thing on its mind. It drags Kraglin through the stocking bay, champing at the muzzle. The flimsy plastic lattice won’t hold long. Then Von Spears will devour every one of the new recruits (who're realizing what a mistake they’ve made) before turning on Kraglin, Yondu, and possibly the galaxy in its entirety.

The sound of its oversized jaws stretching the plastic would make Kraglin quiver, if his attention wasn’t diverted to preventing road-rash. His shoulders strain at the sockets. Hanging off the strap – the one the shopkeeper had informed him was a choke collar, guaranteed to keep even the wiliest man-eaters under control – Kraglin bounces off every Ravager, corner, and cargo container in Von Spears’ path. “Ow! Fuck, ow – sorry, comin’ through – dammit, slow down!”

His pleas are ignored. At least, he tells himself as Von Spears pauses to scent the air and gives him 0.5 seconds to scramble vertical before yanking him over again, today can’t get worse.

Then Von Spears stops. They’ve come to a halt in a dim-lit smuggler stow. The disguised and palm-coded doors have been left open for restocking purposes. With the bare bulb flickering ruby above, Von Spears looks positively demonic. Light flecks his chops in portentous red. When his lips retreat up the gum, revealing fangs longer than Kraglin's hands are wide and glistening with drool, Kraglin shrivels like a slug in brinewater and prays the muzzle holds.

Oddly though, Von Spears’ glare hovers above Kraglin’s prone eyeline. Either he’s got lazy eyes – in which case Kraglin can and will demand a refund, so long as Von Spears doesn’t disembowel him first – or he’s looking at something behind him.

Something behind him that  _growls_.

When a tiny body whizzes past overhead, Kraglin’s sure he’s hallucinating. That, or death-via-fangy-evisceration is more painless than expected. But there’s no mistaking the feel of steel under his groping fingers as he finds his knife, too late to be of any use. Or those familiar little huffs and animal-grunts: sounds that foretell the imminent razing of muscle, tendons, and bone.

Kraglin swallows, throat running dry. But he refuses to give in without a fight. He’s a Ravager – first mate of the  _Eclector!_  He regularly sticks his cock in a guy who gives bright-eyed aspiring Nova Corpsman night terrors! Fuck  _cowering_ : he’s gonna look his death in the face, and by the time he’s finished, Junior’ll be sorry he ever left that crate.

The dagger slithers from his sleeve. Kraglin twists it into a practised ready position before he opens his eyes.

Then drops it.

It chimes as it strikes the floor plates, but Kraglin doesn’t notice. He’s too busy staring. Then Yondu rounds the corner, and mixes swearing at Kraglin with getting his wind back – until he too realizes what he’s seeing, and sinks to sit besides him.

Kraglin wriggles over to make room. “I thought you said Junior was a boy,” he says after a while.

It’s not often ‘uglies bumping’ is taken so literally. The muzzle rips, having suffered its last, and Von Spears tosses his shaggy head in a display of primal dominance, giving them both the stink-eye.

He can glare as much as he likes. Cockblocking carnivorous vermin isn’t on the to-do list, and Kraglin ain’t volunteering to get the water spritzing bottle.

Yondu tilts his head. “Hey, that answers some questions. I always thought he were potty-shy.”

“Gross.”

Isla’s next to arrive, stumbling to a halt and boggling at the scene before her. Yondu and Kraglin both twist at the waist so they can admire her gape. It grows when she notices their proximity, and the lack of the usual corpses that tend to pile up during the resolution of their marital disputes. “Uh. M’guessin’ I shouldn’t ask?”

“You’d guess rightly,” says Yondu. His hand’s crept leftwards. His pinky brushes Kraglin’s. Kraglin hasn’t noticed – obviously, or else he’d shove it away. That’s his excuse and he’s sticking to it.

Isla being Isla, asks anyway. “So this is what does it for you guys?” She motions to the two-backed beast being made, vigorously, energetically, and entirely without apology, in the middle of Yondu’s fresh-swept smuggler-hold. “No judgment. I prefer porn mags myself, but each to their own.”

Yondu looks at Kraglin. Kraglin looks at Yondu. “Perhaps we oughta give ‘em their privacy,” Yondu suggests. Kraglin wholeheartedly agrees.

 

* * *

 

He tails Yondu to his cabin. The shuttle’s stowed in the  _Eclector_ ’s gaping hanger, Isla left to handle stock tallying on the Bridge. Yondu stomps in and bounces on the bed, and Kraglin’s last view of him before the door snicks shut is of his socked feet being pried from their still-zipped boots. “You’ll stretch ‘em,” he calls. He knows the vacuum-sealant lock has yet to engage because Yondu can hear him clear enough to holler back –

“If yer gonna bitch, get in here and help me!”

Kraglin’s happy to comply. Something tells him Von Spears has a short refractory period – they’re not due to be interrupted any time soon. The cool whoosh as the door reels away from his palmprint has him shivering, but that’s nothing compared to the anticipation when he finds Yondu flopped back, arms crossed and glaring at the ceiling, booted foot stuck out in silent demand.

Crossing, Kraglin kneels. He drags the zip to his ankle before working the stiff leather heel over the arch. “How’d you get all this shit off when I was sleepin’ in the bunks?” he asks. Yondu crunches up, elbows crinkling the dirty sheets, and gives him a gold-capped leer.

“What makes ya think I didn’t get help?”

“Junior’s the only other a-hole that can stand ya, sir. And he –  _she_  – would bite right through this crap.” He yanks Yondu’s sock off and lobs it as far away as he can get. The smell ain’t the most offensive thing he’s encountered today, but it's close. Kraglin strokes the first of the many buckles holding Yondu’s arrow-holster contraption at his hip, and teases the bunched leather with his teeth. “Perhaps I oughta take a leaf. I reckon you wouldn’t keep repairing all this complicated shit if I kept breaking it.”

“Don’tchu dare.” Judging by the smile, the anger in his voice is either feigned or well disguised. Kraglin hasn’t gotten to his high rank by daring guess which is which, so he lays off. Rather than getting to gnawing, he works the tough leather through the buckle in dainty tugs. He starts with the smallest, over Yondu’s thigh, and works his way up to where the harness attaches to the central belt, and then to the chest straps, never using his hands where teeth and tongue will suffice.

By the time he’s done, Yondu’s laid out in a web of spilt rigging. His belts are the first of many layers. Unwrapping them is always satisfying – like ripping rosettes off presents. The arrow’s no less dangerous when it’s detached from Yondu’s side – Kraglin’s well aware of that, given Yondu’s tendency to whistle first and ask questions later, even over matters as trivial as Kraglin trying to steal the less-sticky half of the bed. Yet there’s something wonderfully disarming about lifting it (Yondu rolling to allow the straps to slip from beneath him) and placing it far out of reach.

Yondu’s grin broadens, smug and infuriating and wonderful. Kraglin gets to work on the last remaining buckle: the one that shines white-gold over his tented crotch.

“Course,” gasps Yondu as Kraglin swallows him down. “I wear all this crap because it pisses you off.” His voice scratches hoarse as Kraglin sucks and slurps. By the time he pops off, he doesn't sound gravelly so much as tarmacked. Kraglin fondles his swollen balls – someone’s pent up – and then shimmies his pants low on his legs, spreading ‘em to nuzzle open Yondu’s blue asscheeks and breathe hot air over his hole. “And I – I ain’t missed this, y’know. Not at all.”

It’s not his best lie. Kraglin would give a sarcastic “Me neither,” but given that his tongue’s busy elsewhere, he figures Yondu can fill in the words for himself.

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure?” Kraglin asks. Yondu, sitting at his desk – freshly vacated of Junior’s box, although the maggoty bone-cairn in the corner has yet to be cleared – shrugs and keeps rearranging his baubles.

“Jus’ geddon with it,” he says.

This is where he keeps his favorites. The ones that don’t come with him on missions, where the slightest judder of turbulence can shatter fragile glass and crack polished pewter. These are the trinkets Yondu wants to come home to. Fittingly, there’s few of them. Yondu ain’t a man for  _sentiment_. Actually, in all the years Kraglin’s known him, there’s only ever been five.

The snowglobe that started this whole shiny-colleting game. The shrunken head of the last captain, preserved by way of an unpronounceable goop – the recipe for which Yondu had wheedled from the last known Centaurian shaman, hours before she passed. The first flame-patch from a jacket long outgrown. A miniature model of the  _Eclector_  (Isla’d commissioned that one as an aside when a steelworks boss owed them serious dough). And, of course, the first thing Peter had successfully pickpocketed – a grubby credit-chit from a currency long-expired, out of mint but prevalent enough to be worthless even to collectors.

The sight of it makes Kraglin smile.

After the snowglobe, he’d bought Yondu a whole ton of expensive shit. (Well – bought’s the wrong word. He’d ‘acquired’ it.) Rare figurines. Souvenirs from backwater planets – Terra included. Items other folks woulda shed a whole lotta blood for: EMP grenades and bilgesnipe teeth and diamonds as big as his fist. All had been lost some way or another. In an M-ship crash; during a meteor shower; into the pockets of a greedy rookie too confident to realize things would only be worse for them if they made Yondu expend effort on a hunt.

It ain’t the  _value_  of the trinkets, Kraglin’s learnt. It’s (and this may be a surprise to any who think they know Yondu) what they  _mean_.

Hence, he shouldn’t be surprised that the desk has a new occupant.

He leans over the chairback, dropping a peck on Yondu’s implant. The textured metal is cool and firm under his lips. The trolldoll’s ginger hair, when he strokes it, makes for a shocking contrast: wiry and thick, nowhere near as silken as Junior’s pelt. “I’ll get a good deal for ‘em,” he says. “I promise. And won’t sell ‘em to no baiting business neither.”

“Baiting rings don’t take pregnant critters,” Yondu says, dodging the crux of the statement. He rubs the troll’s shiny little pot-belly, then flips it to snicker at its plastic buttocks. “Mated pairs neither. Too much effort to part ‘em, or keep ‘em from the brats.”

Kraglin sighs. “I mean, sir, that I’ll sell ‘em to someone that’ll treat ‘em right, is all.”

“Why’d I care?”

Best not to answer that. Kraglin tugs the trolldoll away, Yondu resisting only a second. He sits him atop the pile of keepsakes that’s the closest they’ll ever come to a scrapbook. “They’re gonna have a family, sir. Wouldn’t be right to split ‘em up.”

Yondu’s huff is artfully lackadaisical. “Whatever. Now fuck off already, I got work to do.”

 

* * *

 

It is suggested that he come along, give Junior her last farewell. It is also denied, with aid of a scowl that cedes to a far more dangerous purse of the lips.  _I ain’t soft on ‘em,_  Yondu had scoffed, shouldering him away.  _Sell ‘em for meat. Bet chu’d like that – get some vengeance, right?_

 _Put a bounty on ‘im! The only one I been soft on is you!_  Kraglin, reminded of that other conversation – the one which’d elapsed between Yondu and Horuz nearing two years ago – figures it's best not to argue.

He also supposes it’d be safest to wait until he’s outta earshot before dialling the Milano’s comm-code. It’s been erased from all official books, as is custom for deserters, but Kraglin and Yondu ain’t forgetting any time soon.

“Uh, s’me – Peter Quill. Y’might know me as Star-Lord. If this’s you, Sanara, I’m really sorry, but I can explain. If it’s the Gravarian Duchess, I’ll drop the charges if you will. Kree-girl – I can’t remember your name – for the last goddam time, I wasn’t  _cheating_ , she was a  _librarian_ , I needed  _information_. Anyway, have you seen those tentacles? Okay. Uh, so, if you’re not one of them lot or some advertisement-AI, I guess you’d better leave your message after the beep.”

 _Beep_.

“Peter,” says Kraglin, channelling his inner parent. It’s buried far down, under several sedimentary layers of spite, irritation, and grudge. But even he can’t deny it’s there.

Junior and Von Spears trundle behind him. They’re honeymooning in luxury. Their bridal suite is a custom built wheeled cage-for-two. All attempts to separate them resulted in mauling, usually amputation, so the sacrifice of a spare hull plate to create a dual-cell is well worth it. The conservationist he’d contacted spots his Mohawk, bobbing amidst the other heads on the bustling dock. They wave. Kraglin nods in acknowledgment, continuing to address an overcrowded little M-ship that’s floating through the aether incalculable lightyears away.

“S’been a while, ain’t it, kid? Anyway – given a certain blue jackass is too stubborn to call, I’m doin’ it for him.” He instinctively checks over his shoulder, satisfies himself there’s no arrow approaching, and gets to business. “I’m sendin’ ya time, place, and date in a data-bundle. Now, we ain’t hunted you down because what’s a lil’ stolen orb-worth-four-fucking-billion between friends?” Four fucking billion, that’s what. Kraglin clears his throat. “But you better believe me, boy. There ain’t nowhere you can run. Not in the entire galaxy. If your ass is no-show I’m gonna track you to the ends of the goddam  _multiverse_ , then drag you back so you can siddown with yer captain, eat Shorro’s cruddy grub, and tell Yondu yer  _sorry_  for forgettin’ to mention yer alive for two fuckin’ years. Capisce?”

He snaps off the comm. Then, as an afterthought, reactivates it – “And you better RSVP, Petey. You got twenty-four hours before I stick a bounty on yer head that’ll make the last one look like pocket-money.”

In the cage, Junior purrs and snuggles into Von Spears’s woolly side. He lays his head atop hers, fangs an inch from her eyeball, and the absolute trust makes a part of Kraglin he didn’t know he had contract. He suspects it might be a heart.

Can’t go nurturing one of those.

“Here,” he says gruffly, shoving the handle of the trolley-cart into the conservationist’s hands. “Take ‘em.”

“But payment –“

“Forget it.” Kraglin winks at her, rotates the strain from his arms, and jogs back to ship. He’s got a dinner to plan, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> **I hope you enjoyed the first chappie! Anyone who's read my long-fic Blame It On The Stars will know that Yondu + Kraglin + pets is never a good idea. At least it's not a bilgesnipe this time...?**
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> **Please comment!**
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> ****


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